Dreaming With A Broken Heart
by r4ven3
Summary: This is the first of two (unrelated) fics for Ruth's birthday - 29th April. Set 18 months after Ruth's death, an old friend comes to Harry's rescue.


_**A/N: Any vague parallels with "Going On", a fic by Antonia Caenis, are accidental and unintended. This fic was planned and begun before AC's fic was published.** _

* * *

"_When you're dreaming with a broken heart  
The waking up is the hardest part  
You roll outta bed and down on your knees  
And for a moment you can hardly breathe  
Wondering, "Was she really here?  
Is she standing in my room?"  
No she's not, 'cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone..._"

\- _Dreaming With a Broken Heart_, by John Mayer

Monday 29th April 2013 – early morning:

Harry wakes slowly and painfully, the bagpipe and drum band in his head cacophonous as a farmyard full of irritated geese. He groans, rolls onto his side and slowly opens his eyes. According to his bedside clock it is 5.48 am - 12 minutes before his alarm is due to sound; 12 minutes before he must head to the shower; 12 minutes during which he can pretend that Ruth is lying asleep in the bed behind him;12 minutes in which he will silently gaze at her photograph beside his bed, wishing that on that terrible day by the estuary he had acted differently. Ruth gazes back at him from the photograph. She is smiling at him - not judging, not angry, not disappointed. For 12 minutes he can pretend that she is just in the next room, having left the bed while he still slept. For 12 minutes she can be downstairs brewing them a pot of coffee. For 12 minutes he will imagine he has hidden her birthday gift behind his shirts at the back of the wardrobe. Did he buy her jewellery, or did he opt for a voucher? Was he brave, or was he a coward? He knows the answer already. Like always, he was a coward.

What kind of man stands by while the woman he loves is stabbed by a young man deranged by the murder of his mother at the hands of his father? What kind of man casts this woman aside – even if only temporarily – while he explores his conflicted feelings towards a lover from 30 years ago? He is that man, and he can barely live with himself.

Harry knows he is grieving. He knows that he spends his mornings before leaving for work imagining …. longing …... believing that Ruth is alive and well and living with him. In his house. For a few minutes each morning it works, and then the tears build – like they do this morning – and they run down his cheeks – as they do right now – and then he acknowledges ….. as he does every morning …. that Ruth is gone and is never coming back. As he does most mornings, he grabs the photograph in the brass frame, places his lips on the image of her lips, and then rests it against his chest, rolls onto his back, and allows his grief a voice.

It had been some months after Ruth's death before he allowed himself to cry properly. He was stoic in the days following, then at her funeral, and once he returned to work. He'd held it all inside, `getting on with it', which was all he knew how to do, all he'd been trained to do. No-one had taught him how to grieve, or impressed on him that it was healthy and normal for a man to cry, but once he started he'd barely been able to stop. He misses Ruth every moment of every day, and he sheds tears for her, for himself, and for the life she had planned for them, the life they'd never had. He sometimes imagines that were he to have collected all the tears he'd cried for Ruth's loss they would have filled his bath several times over.

He is still crying when his alarm sounds. He ignores it. It reminds him that he is alive. It reminds him that there is something he needs to do, somewhere he needs to be. It reminds him that he can't wallow for long in his grief. It reminds him that, while chasing sleep, he drank far too much last night. It reminds him of his decision – was it last week or last year – to give up the whisky. Ruth wouldn't approve of how he grieves for her. She would tell him to think of his team, and to lead by example. `They need you, Harry,' she'd say. Well, he'd reply that he needs her, and where is she when he needs her?

Harry hears his mobile phone ringing from through the doorway to his en suite bathroom. He reaches out to turn off the alarm, rolls out of bed, carefully places Ruth's photo back on his bedside cabinet, and staggers to the doorway. His trousers from the day before lay on the bathroom floor, his shirt and jacket in an untidy heap beside them. He cannot remember how they got there. He cannot remember getting into bed. At least he still wears his grey trunks; he hasn't suffered a total loss of dignity, just a lapse in memory.

_I must cut down on my drinking. _Were Ruth here she'd suggest it's time he gave it up altogether, politely citing statistics linking heavy and persisitent alcohol use with early onset dementia. Harry would welcome dementia. He would welcome anything which might stop the pain. But if he no longer remembered, then he would also forget Ruth, and that would be a tragedy too far.

He leans down to grab his phone from inside the trousers' pocket. "Hello," he says croakily.

"I was about to hang up. I'm sorry if I got you out of bed, Harry." Malcolm. How like Malcolm to ring him this early. How like Malcolm to ring him today, of all days.

"No, it's fine. I was just ….. trying to ….." _Find a reason to get out of bed. Find a reason why I should keep doing what I'm doing. Find a reason to go on._ "I usually get up about now."

"I thought we might meet today, Harry, and I hope you don't mind if we meet at the cemetery."

"At her grave?"

Malcolm hesitates. "Yes. At Ruth's grave. I thought you might need company. Today."

Yes, he does. He needs company, and if it can't be Ruth, then Malcolm is someone who knows him well enough to be with him today.

"7.30? At Ruth's grave," Malcolm says, without preamble or reason. "And I know a nice little place nearby where we can have breakfast afterwards. Oh …. and I've already rung Erin Watts. She doesn't expect you in this morning."

"Malcolm ….. I ..."

"She knows what today is. She agrees with me that you need to ….. take a few hours off. Just for today."

And so that's the way it is. Harry showers and dresses quickly, almost happy to have something different to do ….. something to look forward to. As he drives to meet Malcolm, periodically having to sit in traffic, he casts his mind back to his sessions with a former security services psych.

"You need to see someone, talk to someone …. about Ruth," Malcolm had said.

"I did, and she was useless."

"No … I mean someone who understands what you're going through."

And Malcolm had given him the number for Ken Henry, semi-retired psychotherapist, former security services psych. Ken Henry lives alone in a rambling bungalow just outside London. He had met Harry at the the door and with a sweep of his arm had invited him in. Ken was tall and long-legged, with startling blue eyes - intelligent eyes - and he wore his grey hair short. He wore faded jeans and a navy blue jumper, both of which had seen better days. Harry had felt overdressed in his Armani suit, even without the obligatory silk tie. Ken showed Harry to a seat in his conservatory, with a view overlooking the back lawn, itself surrounded by small flowering shrubs and masses of flowers.

"Nice garden." he'd commented.

"My wife was the gardener. I occasionally go out there and hack about a bit, but it's never looked the same since she died."

Harry had noticed Ken's wedding ring, and how he'd fiddled with it while he spoke of his wife. "How long," he asked, "since she died?"

"Almost ten years." Ken had smiled at Harry. "And no, it doesn't get any easier. I have adjusted and adapted, but it doesn't get easier. It's just necessary. I have two adult children and three grandchildren. I had to make the choice to live …. or let myself go. I decided to live. Paula wouldn't have wanted me to let myself go. I'm living now …. in this house we shared, tending the garden she loved …. for her. One day soon I hope to be able to live here for myself, but that day hasn't yet arrived." Ken contemplated his wife's garden before he continued. "For me ….. it's sleeping alone which is the hardest. I haven't quite adapted to that yet ….. probably because I don't really want to. It's when I'm lying in bed alone that I most miss her. I still sometimes turn to say something to her, and ….. of course, she's not there." Ken had offered Harry a small smile.

"It's Ruth and I never having shared a bed which distresses me. Now …. after all this time, it seems like such a waste." Harry found himself talking about Ruth in ways he had not felt free to share with anyone. The whole story had spilled out – from her first day on the Grid to her last day on earth.

"It sounds like you feel guilty about how she died," Ken had observed, once Harry told him about the events at the Thames estuary.

All Harry could do was nod. At last, there was someone who understood how bad he felt.

As Harry pulls up in the cemetery carpark, he makes a mental note to ring Ken Henry. He needs to talk to someone again ….. someone who didn't know he and Ruth personally, but who understands. The emotion ….. especially his guilt ….. once again threatens to overwhelm him. As he walks through the cemetery gates and onto the pathway which leads to Ruth's grave, Harry wonders will there come a day when he is no longer burdened by remorse and regret.

"You didn't simply stand back and think, `She's on her own; I'll let her deal with this,' did you?" Ken Henry had said, that first time Harry had visited him.

"Of course not, but I underestimated the intent of her killer. He was after me."

"What I'm saying is your intention was for her to do as you asked – ordered. Wasn't it?"

Harry had nodded, feeling completely miserable.

"So logically you have nothing to be feeling guilty about …... but love and loss and grief is never logical. Emotions are not logical. What you are dealing with, Harry, is a need to find a _cause_ for her death. You were not the cause. The young Russian was."

And yet, try as he might, Harry still believes he was at fault. He had let Ruth down. He had not adequately protected her.

When he rounds the corner, Malcolm is already standing beside Ruth's grave, a bunch of flowers in his hand. Harry stops, guilt washing over him once more. He hadn't even thought to bring flowers. Malcolm hears him and turns.

"It's a lovely day," he says. "Ruth would have enjoyed being out today."

Harry thinks it's bloody freezing, but then, in his hurry to get here on time he'd left his coat at home. Very slowly he joins Malcolm where he stands. He is always both confronted and comforted by the sight of Ruth's grave. Confronted by the proof she is dead, and comforted by the record that she had existed at all.

"She would have been 43 today," Harry says, because he needs to say something.

"Far too young." Malcolm kneels and places the flowers at the foot of the headstone, the headstone which declares Ruth's name, her year of birth and death, her parents' names, and that she was a `Beloved daughter, friend and colleague.'

Malcolm stands back while Harry steps closer to the grave, leaning over the headstone to place his fingers to his lips, then place those same fingers against her name, tracing the letters with his fingertips. Then he whispers the same words he says each time he visits: "I love you, Ruth, and I miss you every moment of every day. I'm so sorry …. for everything. Sleep peacefully, sweetheart." Then he feels a few tears escape, but he brushes them away. Tears are for when he's alone.

As Harry and Malcolm reach their respective cars in the car park a light drizzle is falling. Harry believes that even the sky cries for Ruth.

* * *

In contrast to the sombre nature of the cemetery, Joan's Kitchen is warm and bright and homely, with red and white checked tablecloths, and polished brass light fittings set against wood panelled walls. The rich smells wafting from the kitchen arouse Harry's appetite.

"The pancakes are to die for," Malcolm says.

They both order pancakes with jam and cream. They also order a pot of coffee to share.

They each polish off their pancakes, and are on their second pot of coffee when Malcolm sits back in his chair. Harry knows Malcolm well enough to recognise this as a pause-before-I-talk gesture.

"I have something for you, Harry."

Harry had expected a sermon of sorts from Malcolm. He had expected Malcolm to suggest he get out more, begin to socialise again, spend more time with his children. He hadn't expected this.

"I have it in the car. It's a small box of things …..."

"Things?"

"Things which Ruth gave me to give to you …... if anything happened to her."

Harry is baffled, but also intrigued. "When …..?"

"Just before she left London to go into exile she contacted me with the idea that she needed to leave you some things of hers …. as explanation for …... well, I don't know, because I haven't looked. She came to me several times since then, with notes and small things to add to the box. She confided in me when things were difficult when ….. the Russians were here. She was extremely upset about …... what was going on, and it seemed to her that she ….. that you were using her good nature to get closer to Elena Gavrik. I had to agree with her. Anyway, I had almost forgotten about it in the aftermath of her death, and then the funeral, and ….. then when Mother died it slipped my mind altogether. I thought it best to give it to you now ... now that you are opening up a little more."

"I am? I don't feel any different."

"I think you're just about ready to again join the human race, Harry, even if you don't feel like you are."

Harry nods, knowing Malcolm is right. "After Ruth died I took a few things from her house. I wanted … some things to remember her by. I took her pillow, and the book beside her bed, and the mug I knew she drank from, and …. a few photographs. I needed ….. something … of her. I even wish I'd bought the cottage she'd wanted, but ….. it's too late now."

Malcolm nods. "My suggestion is that I now take my leave. Erin doesn't expect you in until this afternoon, so I'll give you the box Ruth left with me, and you can peruse it's contents in private."

* * *

Harry is both excited and afraid. The box in question is a large and sturdy shoe box, one which had held a pair of Doc Martens boots …... hardly Ruth's chosen footwear, and certainly not Malcolm's. He drives back home, the box on the passenger seat beside him. Inside this box is the memories of the woman he had loved – still loves – for almost a decade.

Once home, he takes the box into his living room and places it on the coffee table. Then he heads to the kitchen to make coffee. He has a feeling he will need it to be strong, with only a dash of milk. He considers adding a dash of whisky, but it's still only 10.40 am.

Back in the living room, coffee on the table in front of him, Harry warily lifts the lid of the Doc Martens box. The first thing he sees are photographs ….. lots of them. Some are of Ruth as a child, a teenager in school uniform, a woman in her 20's, and then there are those taken on the Grid …. probably by Malcolm or Colin. He sifts through them until he finds the one he wants. It is one of them both, standing together beside her desk. In the background he can make out Jo Portman and Zaf Younis. He and Ruth are standing a little closer than necessary, each with their eyes on the other. It is clear why this photograph had made it into this box. He and Ruth are gazing at one another with undisguised love in their eyes. Okay, so maybe there is a modicum of lust there also, at least in his own eyes.

Then there are the bits and pieces …... a busines card and serviette from the restaurant he'd taken her for dinner – was it really almost 7 years ago? Small things which meant something to Ruth …. and to him; several notes he'd written her on a post-it note, and left stuck to her monitor; a coaster from a pub where the team had had drinks after the EERIE exercise; several keepsakes from the Havensworth Hotel. There is even a postcard from Polis, Cyprus. He turns it over to see that Ruth had begun a brief letter …. to him. _Dear Harry,_ she had written. _I am writing to let you know I am well and as happy as I can be, given the cirumstances. I miss you._ _I think of you often._ And there she had left it, only half written; an unsent message to him from her new life.

The contents of the box tell him how important certain events had been to her, and by extension, how much he had meant to her back then. When had he fallen in love with her? He couldn't really say. It seemed to him that he had always loved her.

There are at least a dozen separate envelopes, inside which are written notes and letters to him. Each note is dated – the first being her birthday in 2005, and the last being only two days before her death. Harry organises them so that they are in order, and then he fills his coffee cup, and reads them – from the first to the last. The earliest letters are notes to herself, like diary entries.

_29th April, 2005:_

_Harry gave me a birthday gift. It wasn't personal or anything, but it showed me he's been paying attention to me, and that he is beginning to know me as being more than just an analyst. I don't know what to make of it. Does he fancy me? Does he know that I fancy the pants off him? _

Harry smiles to himself at her words.

_What should I do about it? I'm not in a position of power here. He is. I'd love to go out with him, but it could be awkward. He's my boss. I'm a member of his staff. What if we were to fall in love?_

_3rd August 2005:_

_Yesterday was Danny Hunter's funeral. I can barely speak his name. I miss him so much._

_I think it is too late. I am already in love with my boss, and what's worse, I think he more than likes me._

Harry sees her little notes – all on pieces of paper torn from a pad or a book, like she grabbed the nearest thing to her when an idea struck – as Ruth's confessions, firstly to herself, and then to him. One very short note had been scribbled on the back of an envelope:

_15/5/06: Harry and I stared at one another, and it was like looking into the sun. If I don't get to snog him soon I w_

And the note had never been finished. Perhaps she had been interrupted by her phone ringing. Perhaps he'd been the one calling her.

She confesses her fears about firstly having dinner with him, and then her fears about being too heavily invested in the relationship, and how this manifested as her fear of being gossiped about.

_16th July 2006:_

_I know I have hurt him, but I don't know what else to do. I will not be used and then thrown aside. I am not sure he wants me for anything more than sex, so I'll not go there with him - not until I am absolutely sure of his feelings towards me._

There are no notes from the time immediately after Ruth had returned from Cyprus; this does not surprise him. It is the later notes which most sadden him.

_18th June 2011:_

_Harry has confessed that Sasha Gavrik is his son. What do I think about that? I am incensed, I am angry, I am hurt, and I don't know why. Why should this liaison hurt me? It hurts me because I suspect he still has feelings for Elena, and where does this leave me? I don't understand him at all._

Her last note was written two days before she died, and the style of it is different. This is not a note but a letter to him, and he reads it with care.

_6th September 2011:_

_Dearest Harry,_

_Today you kissed me goodbye before you were taken by the CIA, ready for extradition to the US. I am devastated. I think I now understand everything – your enduring love for me (because I now know that it always has been love on your part, and not just a last desperate fling with a younger woman by an aging man – sorry, but that's how it must look to those on the outside) your confusion over Elena – conniving woman that she is – your guilt over Sasha, and now, your (twisted) sense that justice must be served._

_I do not want you to go to the US, from where it is unlikely you will return, so I will do everything in my power to have you stay in this country. _

_I also have a confession to make. Two, actually._

_One is that the cottage I am wanting to buy is designed to house a couple, and I would like that couple to be you and me. I know I have made disparaging remarks about us living in a little place in the country. I was afraid back then, and now I am putting all my cards on the table – face up. This is not a game of poker, this is the real thing. This is our lives. I want you to join me in my cottage. There is ample room for you there, but first we will both have to leave the service, before it destroys us completely. _

_The second confession is not an easy one to be making, especially as I am almost sure there is a plan to keep you in the UK. Harry, for the last few weeks I have had an increasing sense that my life is about to end – suddenly, and perhaps violently. I don't want that – for you or for me. If we can manage to keep you here in this country then I am not leaving your side. I am not yet ready to die, not when there just may be a chance for us. You are my lucky charm. People shoot you and you survive. You are in a convoy when a car bomb explodes, and you are in the other car, the one without the bomb. You are my talisman, and I will stay close to you. We need to spend our lives together, you and me. Apart we are each just a little too broken, while together our love for each other can mend us both. We deserve this._

_I hope that my presentiment is wrong. I want it to be wrong. I want a life with you if you will have me._

_I also hope that you never have the chance to read this. I will give it to Malcolm when I meet him this evening._

_If you are reading this then it means I have gone before you, and I am so, so sorry. I know how sad that will make you. All I can say is that I have loved you for so long, and I wish I had been braver sooner._

_Your Ruth._

By the time he reads the last two words, Harry can barely see them. Tears pour down his cheeks and drip onto his shirt, but he is not sobbing. He is saddened once again at the enormity of what he has lost, while for the first time since Ruth died he feels joy and gratitude and even the faintest glimmer of hope. Harry knows he still has dark days ahead, days in which his sense of loss will be so acute that he will barely be able to breathe, but for now he knows that he has a reason to go on. On this, her 43rd birthday Ruth has reached through the veil and handed him a wonderful gift, a gift of her love, along with her understanding. It is now up to him to gift her in return.

His gift to Ruth is that he will live his life for her, to honour her place in his life and in his heart, and if one day he wakes and finds he is living his life for himself and on his own terms, then perhaps her sacrificing her life to save his will have made some sense. He still plans to ring Ken Henry. He will need help during his attempts to re-enter the mainstream of life. He knows that one question from others, one ill timed observation, one reference to Ruth could still have him scuttling back into himself. Harry lifts the letter to his lips and kisses the last two words she wrote to him. Then with the sleeve of his shirt he wipes his eyes.

He then packs everything back into the shoe box, and leaves it on the coffee table. It is now his most precious possession. Tonight he will go through it again, and perhaps display some of the photographs in his house where he can see them. He needs to remember Ruth with pride, not mourn her and hide her away. Now it is time he showered and changed. With an uncharacteristic spring in his step Harry heads upstairs to the bathroom. He has to get to work. His team need him.

_Fin_

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**_A/N: Thanks for reading. I'm posting another fic for Ruth's birthday - in around 2 days - and I promise that one will be happier._**


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